Hands
by StarViking
Summary: Everytime Sherlock was too drugged out of his mind or was so exhausted from working on a case, his body simply shut down, the only conscious thing his Mind Palace could recall before complete blackness were hands. Every single time, just hands.


**HANDS**

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Everytime Sherlock was too drugged out of his mind or was so exhausted from working on a case, his body simply shut down, the only conscious thing his Mind Palace could recall before complete blackness were hands. Every single time, just hands.

The first pair of hands were expensively manicured, elegant like they were made to play the piano, and never wore a wristwatch when an expensive pocket watch and/or an expensive cell phone would do. They had a hard, unrelenting grip as they got Sherlock to bed without brooking any resistance from him. They were always cold. No matter the time of year or the weather, the hands were cool to the touch and even colder in the emotions behind their actions.

No matter how much time has passed or how much things have changed between them, seemingly for the better, Sherlock will _always_ hate those hands.

Second pair were strong, solid in their grip, calloused, and always smelt of tobacco. But they were very gentle in carefully moving Sherlock from wherever he was originally, to the shower, to the bed in order to prevent him from getting sicker than he already was. Always checked his forehead just before leaving him to sleep it off. Nearly always ran their strong, thick-knuckled fingers thru his hair.

It would be years before Sherlock _finally_ understood that the owner of these hands didn't think of him as a tool for his career, but truly cared and worried about him as a deep, strong friend.

Third pair were technically the weakest in being unable to carry Sherlock anywhere. Gentle nudges were the best they could hope for without help from Second pair or someone else. But they were very kind and warm in their affection in patting his cheek or hugging him before he collapsed on the bed/the couch. Smelt like fresh laundry, yarn, faint, old-fashioned perfume, and sometimes lottery card shavings. They were the hands of the idealized mother, grandmother, or a favorite aunt.

Always knowing when Sherlock _desperately_ needed a simple touch of affection. To be reminded that someone cares for him as family and not an asset.

 _Technically_ , there's another pair of hands that came into his life around this point. But while the owner of those hands Counted in many important ways, they ironically didn't count in this context. She never had to see Sherlock in a drug-addled or tired state, thank God, so he never had a reason for his Mind Palace to take note of her hands. He had no doubt that they were rather skilled at her work and kind in their touch as she was always so very kind. Even to those who definitely don't deserve such kindness.

Fourth pair were strong, but unlike Second pair, were not calloused and hard. Firm, yes. Firm with compassion and skill. The most dexterous of all the hands. Made certain Sherlock would always be in clean clothes, bandaged and/or stitched up where it was needed and safely tucked in bed. The strongest of all the pairs, in that the strength was hidden under a layer of kindness and an easygoing nature. Then when it was needed, the strength would come and the hands would be as unmoving as steel.

For the longest time, those were Sherlock's favorite hands. The hands he trusted the most with his life. Hands he _trusted_ period

Fifth and latest pair were the softest. Soft from a good body-wash soap that smelt of cherries. Hands that never needed to touch anything tougher than a keyboard. Hands that never had to, so far, learn how to wield a gun or a surgical tool or anything more extreme than a pencil. But strong in their fashion and the most loving in many ways. By now, the drugs were a distant, painful memory so the fifth pair only needed to tend to him after he had reached a new depth of fatigue. The hands would help him not fall over, to give him something warm to drink or eat, to help him clean and settle in bed. And thru it all, those hands would always hold onto his free hand if possible or rest on his shoulder or back. Always touching, always anchoring him with her love and warmth.

And at times when he returns home, not too tired but suffering from a different need, she would touch him in ways that he never allowed anyone else to learn or try. Her touch sometimes burned, most often soothed, and always told him over and over and over that he was loved. That she would _always_ love him.

And he would touch her in return.

With long-fingered hands that have callouses at the tips from playing the violin, a few permanent burn scars from chemicals, and a delicate movement about them that would make the most skilled surgeons in the world wince with envy. Hands that seemed cool and distant at first, strong and firm in their grip, but contained a soft, warm gentleness that only a select few would ever get to encounter.

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 **AUTHOR'S NOTES**

Story conceived 7-13-17

I thought of this whole story in the few minutes I had before rushing out the door to catch my bus for college. I lamented and rued that I didn't have time to type down the basics of the story on my PC and it was too elaborate to put in my iPhone notes. Luckily, _several hours later_ , I remembered that I thought of a clever story and got the whole thing down lickety-split.

This story is a part of my Sherlock AU series, but kinda-sorta. It's more of a bonus feature from the DVD/Blu-Ray than an actual episode. An Easter egg if you will.

And yes. _YES_ , I am in fact foreshadowing Sherlock falling in love with an OC that you'll meet in future episodes. So please get your OC hatred out of your system now before her debut story. Which won't be for quite some time so you have loads and loads of time to vent.


End file.
